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Dear Beatrice
Missing for some time, last seen departing on a quest to replenish Hearthglen's supplies of feltop milk, the senile Worgen, Orwell Clemons is found on the shore of a Northrend Lighthouse. Present at the scene, a member of the Order is quoted to have said "It's amazing! I've never seen a neck bend that way." Clemons himself has been incapable of providing an interview. Located not far from where priest was located a journal was discovered by investigating inquisitors. Journal Dear Beatrice. The recruits do not land here anymore; I’ve noticed that this year they seem to have shunned this place. Perhaps it's the depletion of the good content driving them away. Perhaps it’s me. When he first landed here, Hampaw wrote that the raiders were sickly and their officers the lowest of the miserable classes that populate these Kul’Tiran islands. Three tiers later, even they have departed. They were guild-fearing people those raiders. There was no love in the relationship. Hampaw tells me that they had one log that was passed around in strict rotation. It was stolen by a visiting brewmaster monk, two years before the guild was abandoned altogether. In the interim, I wonder, did they assign chapter and verse to the oranges and greys, marking the geography with a superimposed significance; that they could actually walk the parse and inhabit its contradictions? I quote directly: “A motley lot with little to recommend them. I have now spent three days in their company that is, I fear, enough for any raider not born amongst them. Despite their tedious inclination to quote pop culture, they seem to me the most godforsaken of all the inhabitants of the outer isles. Indeed, in this case, the very gravity of that term – forsaken by god – seems to find its very apex.” It appears to me that Hampaw too found those who wander this shoreline to be adrift from any chance of redemption. Did he include himself in that, I wonder? I have found the guilds manifest, crumpled and waterlogged, under a stash of goose lard. It tells me that along with this present cargo, there was a large quantity of next-patch content, bound for the raiding market. It must have washed out to sea, God knows there are no longer raiders or socials here to see it. '''They found the Guild in early spring, the thaw had only just come. Even though it’d been dead nearly seven months, the guild bank had been frozen right down to the gold and had not even begun to be spent. All around it, socials were reaching for the weak sun, the raiders had adjusted happily to life without a guild and were doing anything fucking else freely about the valley. Hampaw reports they hurled the expansion in fear and disgust down the shaft, but I cannot corroborate this story. When I first looked into the shaft, I swear I felt the stones in my stomach shift in recognition. What charnel house lies at the foot of this abyss? How many mythic attempts could fill this hole? 'Climbing down to the caves I slipped and fell and have injured my leg. I think my parse is ruined. It is clearly infected: the log has turned a bright, light grey and the shame is crashing in on waves, winter tides against my shoreline, drowning out the ache of my stones. I struggled back to the bothy to rest, but it has become clear that there is only one way this is likely to end. The guild repairs I looted from the bank have suddenly found their purpose: they will keep me lucid for my final ascent. '